On a day in the summer of 1982, I met her for lunch in Washington. We threw ourselves at each other, kissed, embraced, hugged. It was slightly early, so we were able to find a quiet table in the corner of a small Italian restaurant. We sat and started talking, and talked and talked and talked. The maître d’ came to take our order again, again and again, raising his shoulders in Italian exasperation. Still we talked. Prego, signor e signore? We muttered something to him. We barely ate. So many plans, so many possibilities, all completely hopeless. I kept my hand on hers, just wanted to touch her, not let her go. In between the torrent of whispered words, a bite or two of food. Dolci, signor e signore? A shake of the head, and still the words flowed. I looked her in the eye, stroked her cheek.
She told me more about her life at home. Her husband was not entirely the attentive soul he appeared to be. She didn’t have a lot to complain about except that his life revolved around work and he didn’t share it with her, leaving her to raise their sons and clean the house. She felt neglected, lonely. ‘That night you kissed me,’ she said, ‘I knew my marriage was over.’ Stunned? I was struck dumb. But how to be together, Bonnie and me? That was the question we asked again and again, but could not answer. On and on we talked, trying to work out if there was a way we could have a future together.
Finally we were brought sharply back to planet earth. The Italian boss, standing facing us, shoulders raised, arms outstretched, palms toward us, behind him an empty restaurant. ‘Eh,’ he said, ‘this is a-love, not a-mine-strone.’ We both dissolved in laughter.
I had an office to go back to, Bon had a train to catch. We said goodbye rather perfunctorily outside the restaurant. ‘I must see you again,’ I said. She nodded. A flash of light in my head. ‘New York,’ I said. ‘Can you come to New York? I can invent a story in New York. There’s always something happening up there. Could you come over again?’ She looked worried. ‘I don’t know. I’ll need to think of how. I’ll let you know.’ And she was gone.
What was I doing? Back in our rented house, the atmosphere was worsening. There had been a change in my attitude, brought about by several factors. We were away from the family house in Henley, the house where the boys had grown up, and I had no emotional ties to the house we were now in. The reunion with my parents had underlined for me how wrong I had been to allow the rift to happen—and how wrong Moya had been to ask me to cut all contact with them in the first place. There had been ‘The Kiss’, and now Bonnie—woman of my dreams for so long—was telling me candidly she wanted to be with me every day, night and day. I was emboldened, empowered.
A few months after that lunch with Bonnie in Washington, I saw a story in the US press that British holidaymakers were coming over to New York on shopping trips because of the strength of sterling and also the relative cheapness of American goods. Perfect story, I thought. I sent a telex to the foreign desk in London proposing a major report, a potential lead to part two of News at Ten, filming Brits shopping on Fifth Avenue—cameras, CD players, even clothes in the big stores like Macy’s and Saks Fifth Avenue. It would, I wrote, mean a full day’s filming with a two-night stay in New York.
The reply wasn’t good. The foreign editor felt the story wasn’t strong enough to merit such a trip. If there were two or three other stories to mop up at the same time, maybe. But on its own, no. If I was keen to do it, though, why not a swift day trip to New York—surely all the filming necessary could be accomplished in two to three hours?
This was, of course, journalistically absolutely the right response. It just happened to be not the response I wanted. But why should I allow that to deter me? I was more concerned with affairs of the heart, of considerably greater importance than any journalistic consideration. I looked at the diary. I ringed three days the following week. I phoned Bon in Henley and gave her the dates. I implored her to fly over. Invent something, I said, anything, only just be in New York for these dates. She sounded flustered. She had her boys to think of, then aged 14 and 11. She would have to think of something to tell her husband. I pushed her. What better chance would we ever have? She told me she would do all she could, but it would be difficult.
On the appointed date, I flew to New York. I was, quite simply, committing slow but certain professional suicide.
Humour. That’s the thing. Usual difficulty getting Bon to take her clothes off to shower after breakfast. ‘Why must I? Why have I got to do this?’ I said ‘It’s a small price to pay for being beautiful.’ A beatific smile spread over her face and she co-operated fully.
She had made it possible. I gave her the name of the hotel—the Harley on East 42nd Street—and told her I would be there from 6pm. She told me she would try to get there as soon after that as possible.
It was a beautiful room, with lush furnishings and a luxurious king-size bed. I fussed around, making sure everything was perfect. Beautiful soft towelling dressing gowns, his and hers, towels you could wrap round yourself twice, large bath and spacious walk-in shower. It was perfect. I rang room service and ordered a bottle of champagne. It arrived before she did, which I was pleased about.
The phone rang. ‘I’m in the lobby.’ As calmly as I could, I gave her the room number. My heart was pounding, my skin tingling. I forced myself to count slowly to 20, then went to the door and held it open. I listened for the lift doors opening. Nothing. I waited, my breathing becoming shallower. Still nothing. I cast my eyes back into the room to check for the umpteenth time that everything was in order. Suddenly a flurry of movement, the sound of quick breathing, the rustle of clothes. In a flash, head down, she brushed past me into the room.
Her face was flushed, her eyes wide. I put my hands on her shoulders to steady her. ‘Are you all right?’ She nodded, and slowly her breathing calmed down. ‘God, what an experience.’ ‘What do you mean?’ ‘As soon as I walked into the lobby, I saw this man looking at me. Had a pass or something round his neck, so I knew he was security. After I phoned you, he walked over to me. I knew what he was thinking. He asked me if I was a guest. I said no, but I was coming to visit a friend. From England. He looked as if he was going to question me further. But then he nodded and walked away.’ ‘My God,’ I said. She nodded quickly. ‘He thought I was a hooker.’ She looked alarmed, I looked alarmed, then we both dissolved into laughter.
She was wearing a dark pink suede suit, with a plain mauve blouse underneath. That suit was one of my favourites, and I had told her so when she had worn it to a fancy do we had been to with our spouses in London. That’s why I wore it, she said, because I knew you liked it. I sat her on the end of the bed, put my arms round her, and kissed her. She responded instantly. Gently I laid her back on the bed, opened the suit jacket, and kissed her again, more softly this time.
I opened the champagne and poured two glasses. ‘A toast,’ I said. ‘To our future together. Lord knows how we’ll achieve it, but we’ll do it somehow.’ We clinked our glasses and drank. Later I ordered dinner from room service.
I remember now that we didn’t talk much that evening. What was there to say? We could go through all the impossible dreams and ideas again, as we had at that Italian restaurant in Washington, but where would it get us? There was another reason for our silence—well, mine at any rate. I knew we were together, and were going to be together for the next two nights. I wanted nothing to intrude on that delicious thought.
It came time for bed. ‘You get into bed,’ she said, ‘and I’ll join you in a few moments.’ She went into the bathroom. When she emerged she was wearing a white towelling robe. I had dimmed the lights. She stood by the side of the bed, fixed her eyes on mine, unbelted the robe and let it fall from her shoulders. She climbed into the bed.
Ah, my Bonnie, I remember it as if it were yesterday, every sensation, every glorious moment, the little pulsating sounds you made, the gentle smile on your upturned lips. You make that sound now, quite often, but there is distress in it. You made it when I got you ready for bed last night, didn’t you? You hate having to take your clothes off to get into your nightie, you ask me why do I have to do this, and you make despairing little sobbing sounds. They go into me like a thousand sharp needles. I try to reassure